


I Can Be Naked If I Want To

by Mayoki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humor, THAT SHEET
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:36:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3807181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayoki/pseuds/Mayoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets locked out of the flat. Wearing only that infamous bedsheet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Be Naked If I Want To

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written several years ago as response to a prompt on the LJ BBC Sherlock kink-meme.

The sheet was easy, comfortable and…well damn it did he really need a third reason? It was his sheet. It was his flat. It was, therefore, his business should he decide on a lazy Sunday morning to simply wrap it around himself like a toga and go about his business around his own home.

Only one John “party-wrecker” Watson had other ideas.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ The tapping at the laptop abruptly stopped as Sherlock swept into the living room and began shaking a test tube containing a fizzing white liquid.

‘Something the matter?’ Sherlock asked, eyes never leaving the froth. He made a few notes in the book beside the tube and then went about making himself a cup of tea.

‘Yes! You! Sherlock you can’t go around like that.’

‘Why not? Nobody can see me.’

‘I can see you!’

‘You don’t count.’ Sherlock flicked the kettle on and began foraging for tea bags. ‘Want a cup of tea?’

‘No! Seriously, please put some clothes on.’ John flushed as during the tea bag finding exercise the sheet slipped down a little to expose pale lean muscle.

‘Where’s the milk?’ Sherlock asked, ignoring the request to get dressed. That required effort. He was only going to go back to bed in a few hours, so why bother?

‘I used the last in my coffee.’

‘Has the milkman been yet?’

‘I don’t know, I haven’t been out to check. If you were to put some clothing on you could go and see for yourself.’

‘No need. I’ll text Mrs Hudson.’ Sherlock snatched his phone from the coffee table and with slender fingers quickly tapped out a message.

Minutes later he was gifted with a reply: “Not your housekeeper.”

Sherlock grunted and chucked the phone on the sofa, not caring that it landed on John. ‘I’ll go and get it myself.’

John looked up from his laptop again and frowned. ‘You are going to get changed first, right?’

‘Nope.’ Sherlock said, and true to his word gathered the sheet a little tighter around himself and headed straight out of the flat, leaving John watching him with his mouth gaping wide.

Though they didn’t live on a main road Baker Street still had fairly heavy footfall, especially since Sherlock had become something of an internet sensation. Chances were there were at least a few fans outside eager to snap a picture of their hero. To find him clad only in a sheet…this John wanted to see. Feeling particularly evil, John got up from the sofa and quickly ran down the stairs. He bade good morning to Mrs Hudson then slammed the front door closed behind Sherlock who was bent over and picking up the bottles of milk from the front step. He quickly locked the door and then grinned.

It took only three seconds for the banging to start.

‘John! John for crying out loud what are you playing at?’

‘Sorry Sherlock, can’t hear you through this door. What are you trying to say, mate?’

Sherlock could of course hear perfectly well through the door. He grit his teeth and tried the handle again to no avail. ‘I said open this door or I’ll tear it off its hinges and rip out your spine.’

‘No, can’t hear a thing you’re saying Sherlock,’ John said sadly. ‘I’ll talk to you later. Say half an hour?’ With another wicked grin to Mrs Hudson, John took the stairs two at a time and then perched himself on the windowsill facing the street.

He smiled as he watched Sherlock try the door once more then turn out onto the street, huddling a bit more self consciously under the sheet. There weren’t too many people about but those that were had heard the heated exchange of a man shouting at his front door and clearly thought him insane. And – oh yes! There were the camera phones. John silently thanked whoever it was that had first had the ingenious idea to stick a camera to the humble mobile phone so that embarrassing moments like this could be immortalised and posted on the internet for all to view all within a matter of seconds.

It was Sherlock’s own fault, really. When there were no cases to be worked the man was so damn lazy and idle. John recognised it as part depression, but that Sherlock would flaunt his irritating ways always gave him his doubts. Perhaps the indignity of thirty minutes locked out dressed only in a sheet would make him see the error of his ways. It was embarrassing to have his flat mate parading around undressed like that, it sent his mind places that he really didn’t want it venturing.

No. Thirty minutes of humility would do Sherlock the world of good.

-

Sherlock was not happy. At all. He knew exactly what game John was playing and if his flat mate thought this would change his habits he was sadly mistaken. Sherlock wasn’t shy of his body, and next time he stalked into the living room he wouldn’t even be wearing a sheet. That would show him.

But now he had more pressing matters. Though not shy of his body he wasn’t very appreciative of the looks he was getting from passersby. Or the fact he had been the subject of no less than twenty-seven photographs, presumably all now posted to the internet.

A woman covered her young daughter’s eyes and hurried her across the street as Sherlock smiled and waved awkwardly, shifting his grip on the sheet that covered him. His hands were going numb. It was cold. There was a breeze up his…this had to stop.

He rang the bell. He knocked loudly. He yelled. But John was having none of it. And apparently Mrs Hudson was in on the act too as even she didn’t come to his aid.

Thoroughly annoyed Sherlock decided that he had to get off the street. People were starting to gather to stare at him. It took only a few minutes of walking to hail a cab, and the driver stared at him with wide eyes as he climbed in the back.

‘I need to get to Mayfair. It’s important.’

The man blinked a few times. ‘Uh, you have any money mate?’

‘Oh damn, I left my wallet in my other sheet. Of course I bloody don’t! But when we get there my brother-’

‘Sorry I’ve heard this story too many times before.’

‘…Really? You’ve really heard the one about a man being locked out of his flat dressed only in a bedsheet due to his flat mate being an annoying prick?’

‘You’d be surprised. No money no ride, though. Sorry.’

Angrily Sherlock gathered his sheet about himself and stalked off to find another cab. Two others refused him a ride based on his lack of money and one drove off before he could utter a word. To be fair his sheet was riding down a bit low to his waist…Sherlock gathered it a bit tighter and turned to find another cab. Instead he found himself face to face with a police officer.

‘Morning.’ Sherlock said, trying to side step the man.

‘Interesting choice of clothing. Bit nippy for January isn’t it?’

‘Unfortunately my coat clashed with it something terrible,’ Sherlock said, trying once again to get past. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me.’

‘Sorry son, I think you’re going to have to come with me.’ And with that the man placed a hand on his shoulder and led him to a parked police car. ‘I would handcuff you, but I have nothing to keep the sheet up with so…’

‘Oh this is ridiculous. Do you know who I am? I’m Sherlock bloody Holmes. Just call Mycroft, you must know him.’

‘Please don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be, sir.’

‘Jesus bloody Christ…’ Sherlock spat as he found himself manhandled into the back of a police car dressed only in a sheet that fell down to expose his skinny ass to the crowd around them.

This was definitely one of the worse days of his life.

-

John was getting a bit worried. Sherlock had wandered off down the street and he had been expecting him back any time. However the minutes ticked slowly by and there was still no sign of his flat mate.

With growing unease John slipped his jacket on and then grabbed Sherlock’s long coat too. He headed out and followed the path he had seen Sherlock take. This wasn’t funny anymore. What if he’d been attacked? Or was lying in an alley suffering from hypothermia. It had only meant to be a little bit of fun. He was going to let him back in after he’d learned his lesson! It wasn’t so funny anymore…

-

Sally Donovan was bored. She alternated between tapping out a tune with her pen on the empty pad in front of her and looking at the pie charts on the presentation in front of her and trying to imagine them as a game of pac man.

Beside her Anderson was doodling a spider on the corner of his notes. Sally reached over to give the spider a smiling face.

The woman giving the presentation cleared her throat and Sally looked up guiltily. She tried to engage with what was being said but the psychology of statistics just wasn’t as fascinating as Lestrade had made it sound. She did notice that her DI wasn’t present, though, and wondered how he’d got out of this one.

Her gaze travelled over to the door where she imagined herself vaulting over the desk and making a run for it. However just as she imagined herself scrambling down the corridor a man walked past the window. It was just a street police officer, so she wondered why he was up here on this floor. She almost chocked when following him was a man she recognised instantly. However what was most shocking was the fact that he appeared to be wearing a…toga?

‘Donovan? Everything okay?’

Sally turned back to the woman and shook her head. ‘Sorry. No, I…need to go…’ With that she scrambled up from her seat, tapping Anderson on her way out as if to pass on a message.

‘I need to go too. Urgent case. Urgent,’ he mumbled, unsure what he was doing but knowing it had to be infinitely more engaging that the power point.

‘Donovan, what’s up?’ he asked.

‘You’re going to want to see this!’ she promised, grabbing his hand and leading him the direction Sherlock had headed.

-

Lestrade’s happiness was laced with guilt. He had sent all of his staff in to a presentation that promised to increase the suicide rate of the entire floor, but had managed to get himself out of it. Now he was enjoying a warm coffee, muffin and a leisurely read of a case report. Things were good.

Until there was a knock at his door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Um, PC Fielding, sir.’

Lestrade frowned; he’d never heard of him. ‘Come in.’

The young officer stumbled in and cleared his throat. Lestrade noticed there was a light pink tinge to his cheeks and he seemed overly nervous. ‘Uh, I just apprehended someone on the street.’

‘…Yes?’

‘He…he demanded to see you, sir.’

‘Well place him in a cell, take his statement and pretend that I’ll be on my way.’

‘No sir, you want to see him. He’s making things very difficult for everyone and keeps demanding you by name.’

‘Half the criminals in London know me by name,’ Lestrade said, rubbing his temples and sensing this PC wasn’t going to leave.

‘Yes but he’s very insistent. He keeps threatening to let go of his sheet, sir.’

‘Sheet?’ Lestrade groaned and decided he may as well deal with the problem. Then he could get back to his muffin. ‘Where is he?’

‘Here,’ Sherlock burst into the office, two officers behind him trying to drag him back out again. ‘Lestrade make them stop or I swear to god I’m letting go and I am not wearing any boxers.’

Of all the things Lestrade had been expecting, a half naked Sherlock Holmes being manhandled by two of his officers and dressed only in a thin cream sheet that was clutched at his waist (and falling fast) was not top of his list. He simply stared wide-mouthed at the development.

As if things couldn’t get any stranger there were suddenly fast footsteps as Donovan and Anderson skidded to a stop outside the door.

‘Oh my god you were right,’ Anderson said, a grin splitting his face almost in two.

‘See? He’s actually wearing his bedclothes! I told you he was a freak! Smile!’ Donovan snapped a pic of the outraged Sherlock and held up her phone. ‘This is my new computer wallpaper. And I think it deserves a prime spot on the staff pin board, don’t you Anderson?’

‘I think it needs to be framed.’

‘Let’s go make sure copies are sent to anyone that’s ever heard the name Sherlock Holmes. Good luck with this one Lestrade!’

Lestrade simply sat and watched all of this happen.

‘Uh…so…what do we do with him, sir?’ PC Fielding asked nervously.

‘I think there’s only one thing to do. We have to call his handler.’

-

John was terrified. He couldn’t find Sherlock anywhere near Baker Street and he began to imagine the worst. Sherlock had pretty sharp features, he was thin and sinewy, pale and beautiful…and dressed rather provocatively in only a bed sheet. What if someone had kidnapped him? What if they were torturing him, or forcing him into a sexual situation that could scar him for life? What if-

His phone rang and for a second John’s heart leaped as he imagined it was Sherlock. He mentally cursed himself as he saw Lestrade’s name flash up; Sherlock didn’t have his phone on him. It was a text and it was as brief as if it had been penned by Sherlock himself.

Station. Bring clothes. GL

Confused John ran back to 221B Baker Street and gathered a set of Sherlock’s clothes. He called a cab and made it to the station in record time, ignoring Donovan who was grinning about something at the photocopier. It was only as he started sprint up the stairs that he took note of a crude black and white flier. It was obviously hastily put together but the image was clear enough; Sherlock. In his sheet. Looking like a deer caught in headlights. As John looked about he saw the posters taped up everywhere.

Oh god.

He ran the rest of the way to Lestrade’s office and remembered to knock only after he had opened the door and was halfway inside.

Sherlock was sat at Lestrade’s desk, perfectly content with a cup of tea and his sheet. Lestrade looked like he was about to have a stroke.

John threw the DI a look of genuine apology. ‘Greg, this is all my fault. I am so sorry…’

‘Just. Get. Him. Out. Of. That. Damn. SHEET,’ Lestrade said through clenched teeth.

‘I do hope you brought my purple shirt. I love that shirt, brings out my eyes,' Sherlock said.

And John knew then that his lesson had backfired somewhat spectacularly.


End file.
